Any Future with You Is Okay with Me
by kazzaroo
Summary: He just wants to be around her. Beside her. Above her, beneath her... With her. The where and when doesn't really matter.
1. Chapter 1

**This was originally going to be a one-shot, built around this image I had of Kyle and Sarah in the future where he's helping her down from some ledge (because their size difference is adorable). But I'm considering expanding it a bit, and splitting it up into two or three parts. If I do, the rating may possibly go up later. Probably will.  
**

* * *

By the time the last of them trickle through the narrow culvert, the perennially overcast sky has grown even darker with the dusk. Lately it seems like it gets darker with every passing day. If nothing else, it's making it hard to tell the faces apart from each other as one by one the black-clad soldiers shimmy through the opening and drop the remaining few feet to the ground, back to relative safety. Margo. Cooper. Yael. Jackson. Eoin. Then the newer faces he doesn't know, stragglers pulled to safety over the past months who chose to become active members of the Resistance and step right back into the war outside, for the good of the many. Their heavy boots splash up the filthy water as they land. They drag the scavenged supplies down behind them, the contents of the large duffle bags barely expanding the canvas—looks like there's not much to show for their efforts. Too bad. Especially since they were gone too long for comfort this time.

He doesn't much like it when a group is late to return. He knows all too well the risks they run in venturing out, and the shit they often unknowingly stride headlong into—of course he does. He's led out more of them and strode into more said shit than he cares to recall. But not until lately has he begun to think staying behind just might be worse. The firsthand knowledge of potential disaster swirling the what-ifs around in his head, the lack of control stringing out his nerves. He didn't used to be a nervous wreck like this. He didn't used to care so much. That is...he _cared_ , sure; no one can afford apathy in these latter days. Not giving a damn will get you killed straight away. But it wasn't until _she_ started mattering significantly more than anyone or anything else he could name that he started getting so damn antsy about these situations, the ones where he can't always be right by her side. They're rare, granted—as rare as he can manage it—the occasions when he's _not_ out there and she _is._ All the same, they threaten to make him go stir-crazy, and sometimes he's tempted to do something incredibly stupid like rush out on a solo mission to check up on her and haul her back. And this was just a supply run, for God's sake.

So yeah, make that: he doesn't like it _at all_.

He's propped against the concave wall a few paces back, arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked tightly under his armpits as if to pin himself down, eyes trained on the mouth of the opening with growing impatience. He watches the dark figures worm their way down with various degrees of difficulty, truly concerned only for her, if he's honest. He spares them only a passing glance, focused as much on getting the first glimpse of her as the rest of them are on getting dry clothes and something to eat.

At last he sees them—the pair of small, black combat boots swinging over the edge to dangle in space for a moment, nearly the last ones to appear.

In a second he's there, below her, reaching up to wrap his hands around her waist and lower her to the ground until she's standing so close to him she's practically between his legs. The remainder of the group shuffle past him utterly unnoticed as he gazes down at her. He tries to curb the impulse out of habit, but can't completely, and the edges of his mouth are overtaken by a relieved grin.

"I can jump down, you know." Her responding smile is more amused than annoyed.

"I know." His grip on her refuses to loosen, and she allows herself to lean into him. Then quietly, against her hair, he asks her what he always asks her. "Everything okay?"

He feels her nod against the thick material of his jacket.

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

"Mmhm." She tilts her face up to study his before she hands the query back to him, her eyes ricocheting between his for the answer. "You?"

Her irises are soft and liquid in this half-light. They're shining up at him with a steadiness that threatens to steal his breath and sends a surge of heat throughout his chest and downwards. She doesn't know. She can't possibly know what she does, what she is. He barely comprehends it himself. He spends a few long seconds unapologetically gazing back at her before answering decidedly in the affirmative.

"Let's get you warm," he then says, suffering no argument as he relieves her of the half-full duffle and slings it over his own shoulder. She presses close to him, collecting some of his body heat as they trek back through flooded pipes to the bunker, thankful for now just to be out of the weather and line of fire.


	2. Chapter 2

**The rest of this thing has been relaxing in my drafts for *mumbles how long*, but the good news is that now it's really, actually completed. So for those of you who subscribed on the chance that I'd expand it, here you go! Here's some more. Turns out the rating does go up with this chapter, so heads up. Nothing extreme, but enough so that FF requires I raise the M flag.**

 **There's also a final chapter after this one to cap everything off, and it'll be up on Wednesday. :)**

* * *

Their room is clean and dry. Mostly because she makes him take his shoes off at the threshold, in an attempt to confine the filth they track in to the concrete just inside the door. He's forced himself to continue to do this religiously in her absence, for her sake. He wanted the space to be acceptable to her whenever she got back. Seeing that she's already set the example, he tucks his laces inside his boots to keep them free of the mud and lines his pair up besides hers, half-grinning at their size difference.

She's already in the next room, down to her underwear and still peeling off layers of sodden clothing. Her top quickly follows the waterlogged cargo pants in a weeping pile on the floor, then she sifts through their limited pile of spare clothes for a fresh t-shirt, emerging with one of his, he notes. At least, it used to be his. The line of ownership has become blurred over time because she swipes it at every opportunity. She can have it though, if she wants it. Of course she can. It's hers. Hell, if he had a dozen over-sized, perfectly worn-in shirts, he'd gladly give all of them to her. He'd give her anything.

Approaching from behind, it's his hands on the bare skin of her back that pause her actions, and he can feel her tense infinitesimally before softening under his touch. She still does that occasionally, even now. It's as if there's a split second where she's unsure whether to let someone close, where she's deciding whether her guard should be raised or lowered. It doesn't happen nearly as much as it used to, and when it does it's mostly out of habit. But she lets him close now, relaxing, leaning into him—she always lets him.

Leaning down, he brushes his lips across the juncture of her neck and shoulder. "Nuh-uh..." He husks into the skin there, moving his nose from side to side in a silent objection. "You're always taking my stuff."

"You like it when I wear your shirts," she says smugly.

"Don't know what gave you that idea."

"You like seeing me in them," continuing as if she hadn't heard, "and how they smell like me afterwards..."

He shakes his head likes she's gone crazy, smirking into her shoulder. "Lies."

"And stripping them off me."

"Yeah...cause they're mine."

"Oh, so _that's_ what's going through your head in the moment," she epiphanizes, humoring him. "Thanks so much for clarifying—"

"The point is, _you aren't gonna need it_ ," he murmurs into her neck.

When she angles her head back to look at him, her full brows are raised in a show of defiance. "Says who, soldier?"

"Don't tell me you haven't missed me," he teases, slowly nuzzling the soft skin below her jaw while tugging her closer against his hips. "Or that you weren't thinking about me while you were gone." He feels her breath hitch, and her next words, however flippant, aren't convincing in the least.

"All I've been thinking about is a hot shower and deodorant, Reese."

He raises an eyebrow of his own, still trying to smother the grin that wants to surface, even though she's not looking. "Alright." He can play her game.

Slowly he runs his warm palms down her sides, raising goosebumps on the still-damp flesh. When he reaches her hips, his broad hands curl around them to the tops of her thighs, hovering at the waistband of her plain black underwear. "So what you're saying is..." Gently, he cups her through the soaked fabric, hearing her suck in a breath in response. "You're just soaked through from the _rain_ ," continuing to lightly move against her. "That's all this is."

She snorts inelegantly. " _Bite me_ ," she quips the familiar phrase, somewhat breathlessly, before gasping in reaction to his unexpected obedience.

The pink crescent outline of his teeth stands out on the creamy skin of her neck, and he pauses to admire it before laving his tongue over the mark soothingly.

When she turns towards him again he knows he's won this round. Her hooded gaze sufficiently negates any further excuses she might invent to tease him. Not that she bothers. It drops to his chest appreciatively, then travels upwards again, her fingers trailing lazily in its wake until she recaptures his eyes.

God in heaven. How is she _here_. How is she right here, in front of him, looking at him like _that_.

"Sarah..."

"I am gonna take a shower," she insists.

"Fine. M'not stopping you."

Reaching up, she rests her forearms on his shoulders, clasping them loosely behind his neck. "...I mean, it's a decent-sized shower."

"Been in it before," he nods conversationally.

She draws her bottom lip between her teeth and presses a bit closer. "I might need you to wash my back."

"You forget how to again?"

"My arms are really sore."

"Mm. The hot water'll help with that."

" _Reese_."

"Sarah." He snatches the shirt from her and tosses it aside as if the sight of it offends him. "You still won't be needing that," he states, pulling her with him into the bathroom.

* * *

The soap is her favorite so far. They never know what soap they'll be issued, bar or liquid, floral or fruity. It's just luck of the draw, really. This one is a citrus-scented body wash that was already partially empty when they first got it. He had used it sparingly while she'd been gone so there would be some left for her. The smell is fresh and soothing, the tiny bubbles almost hypnotically iridescent as he massages them into her shoulders, then pushes the pads of his thumbs in gentle circles down her triceps. She hums gratefully in response and gradually relaxes under his touch, her body softening, settling.

Eventually she turns around and returns the favor. As she runs her hands over him, spreading the suds across his chest and stomach, she can feel his low rumble of pleasure beneath her fingers. Then she reaches lower, and the distinctly needy sound that escapes his lips is entirely out of his control.

The next moments are a thick haze of warm lips and tongues, of possessive touches and a give-and-take that builds slowly but surely to a deep and steady burn. Can it really be only a few days since he's been with her? It's been _forever_. He's never letting her leave again; leaving is stupid and out of the question. Being apart from her is pointless. He can't breathe without her. Hell, he doesn't _want_ to breathe without her, and maybe that's morbid, but it feels true, and she's true, and she's _here_. With him.

It isn't until Sarah's knees nearly buckle—half from previous exhaustion and half from the present sensation of his mouth working between her thighs—that he finally pulls away. He shuts off the water, almost cold by now, and accepts the towel she hands him. Instead of keeping it he uses it on her, running it gently over the curves of her breasts, her stomach, her sweet, round ass. He gives it a firm squeeze, relishing how she completely fills his hands, making her chuckle.

* * *

She ends up wearing his shirt after all—he slips it over her head himself. Gathering up her wet things from the floor, he begins to hang them over the towel bar by the sink so they won't sour. Washing them can wait till tomorrow. He's squeezing out her vest when she captures him in a hug from behind, pressing a pillow-soft kiss between his shoulder blades.

Without breaking the hug, he turns around to face her, and the top of her head barely comes up to his shoulder. It doesn't even, actually. She's so damn tiny and perfect, juxtaposed with his mass. She fits him just right, feels just right under his hands, in his arms. Looking down at her now, her hair is beginning to air dry, with little curls framing her face, and her enormous eyes have him again, trapped in their beam. Eyes that currently aren't narrowed shrewdly or calculatedly blank, but affectionate and open. Wide open for him, letting him see her. Seeing him.

"Brought something back for you," she almost whispers, resting her chin on his still-bare chest as she peers up at him.

Absently, he reaches out to twirl one of her curls around a fingertip. "Like a present?"

She nods against him. "Sort of." She steps away momentarily to unzip the front pocket of her backpack. "Found it when we were clearing this storefront. Someone had been there before us and everything was ransacked. Stuff everywhere, all turned over and piled up. These were all over the floor."

Striding over, he takes the stiff piece of paper from her and sinks down onto the bed, where she curls up beside him.

It's a picture. Not a photograph—he knows the difference—but glossy and thick. The background shows the coast, with clean blue, foam-capped waves breaking on a shore ringed in rocky cliffs. Superimposed on the ocean view are chunky, colorful letters, each one filled in with a smaller scene. A tall, sloping bridge. A building with roofs that curl up at the edges. A curvy blonde in a fancy dress. A forest of tall, red trees. The letters spell out, _Greetings from CALIFORNIA, The Golden State!_

For a minute or two he just sits there, lost in thought. "Things used to be like this," he finally says, still staring. "...Hard to believe."

"It was beautiful. Hard to believe that's where we are." She stares at it too, then sort of laughs. "Just doesn't look like _that._ "

He just grunts softly in response, lost again in the technicolor of this relic from the world's past. The golden state. He can hardly imagine what that would be like.

Not until the card is abruptly pulled away from him does his attention snap back to her, trying to identify the look on her face.

Her brows are pulling together, the corners of her lips pulling down. "I shouldn't have brought this. It was...stupid…" She mutters.

"No, no, stop. I like it." She thinks he doesn't. She's overthinking it. And maybe _she's_ not liking it as much as she did at first. Gently, insistently, he takes it back from her, and using one of his knives from the table, pins it to the wall beside the bed. "Something bright to look at." Then he cups her face in his big hands, dwarfing her features. He runs the pad of one calloused thumb over the furrow between her brows, smoothing it out after a couple passes, and just gazes at her until she rolls her eyes.

"We are where we are," he says. "I'm here. You're here." She's everything. He shrugs, like it's no big deal. "I can live with that." She's all that matters.

She shakes her head, but she's not disagreeing, and in another beat or two she's smiling wryly back at him. "We are where we are."


	3. Chapter 3

**Here's the final part, as promised. In the beginning I never intended these chapters to be any more than a one-shot, so this conclusion is short but sweet. Drop by in the comments and let me know your thoughts on the fic as a whole! I'd love to hear them. :)**

* * *

Tenderly she traces the thick scar tissue decorating his chest and arms, pressing her soft lips to them like a balm. Her mere touch can erase all evidence of his past wounds, can leech away the pain that first accompanied them as if they never existed, and he lets her.

She has scars too, rose and silver ones—a brief history of survival, same as his. Hers grace her forearms, her right calf, a spot just above her right elbow, another just beneath her left breast. One by one he kisses her marks, taking his turn, taking his time, trying to convey the enormity of what he feels into the way he touches her. They're kisses that aren't meant to lead anywhere in particular. He wants to kiss her simply for the sake of tasting her skin, this woman who holds his heart in a vice-grip between her small, capable hands.

Yet when she whimpers with growing need, he doesn't tease her for it, and he doesn't make her wait. In moment he's inside her once more, thrusting up into her warm, sweet body, her tongue gently stroking the underside of his, then the roof of his mouth, before kissing him again, and again, holding him to her as if there's even a stray chance in hell that he'd let her go.

She can't know what she is. He's constantly trying to tell her, and when that often fails, trying to _show_ her. And then when it still feels nothing close to enough, she'll look at him like the way she's looking at him right now.

Right now, her walls are nowhere in sight. She's just here, all here, all in, for him. Allowing him close to her. Letting herself feel.

As her nearly-blunt nails drag along the thick muscles of his back, he's gone, giving himself over to the pure pleasure of her until all he knows is reduced to a single name. He's pretty sure the sound could never be confused as him claiming her; he's all too aware of exactly how much it's the other way around. She owns him—heart and soul and past and future. He wouldn't change it. He doesn't know that he'd change anything, not even if he had the chance.

He just wants her. In another time maybe, back when the world had golden places. Here, now, whether there's a war going on outside their walls or not. Somewhere else a million miles away. The details don't matter so much.

He just wants to be with her, in any life.


End file.
